The Reclaiming
by Mel88
Summary: It was just another reminder that what they were doing, the lives they were reclaiming, were the lives of people. Of the people each and every member of her group used to be. Hopeful. Determined. Human.


Author's Note:

This story was written for the 2013 HP DarkArts fest on LJ. Here was my prompt:

Our planet is dying. Not only from the pollution of Muggle technology, but the pollution of dark magic. Being one of very few planets capable of supporting complex multicellular life, some deity or another decides it is too valuable to waste. They select certain wizards/witches and wipe them clean of everything but one order: kill everything under the classification Homo sapiens. This isn't a story of how so and so saves the human race and everyone learns a lesson. Many try of course, but the horror lies in that they fail. When their mission is complete, the chosen turn their wands on themselves and life on Earth goes on without the Human race.

And a big 'Thanks!' to Cait, who beta'd this on short notice and did a wonderful job. Any remaining errors are mine alone.

**The Reclaiming**

**Part One**

The night was still, silent, and moonless – as correct and ordered as humankind could imagine it. Those who were good slept soundly, with their children or pets tucked neatly away, unworried and confident that they would see the next day, and dreaming – always dreaming – of what it might bring. Those who were bad slept as well, but maybe less soundly, or maybe not at all, if what made them bad brought them out at night.

Then the clocks chimed twelve, and shafts of light brighter than anything the sun could throw, and more purely white than moonlight, shot down from beyond the sky. They pierced through branches thick with leaves, and through curtained bedroom windows, and through ceilings of rooms that had no windows at all. The rays moved with purpose, locating beds and couches and futons and floors. They traveled swiftly up blanketed bodies until they reached skin, where they were absorbed as efficiently and quickly as dry soil takes on water.

As soon as the light was absorbed, the reaction took place in the brain, and then the still and silent night disappeared, changing into something incorrect and unordered. Changing into chaos unimaginable and previously inconceivable to humankind.

_June 2013, Midnight_

Hermione Granger woke breathless and panicked. Her fingers twisted around bed sheets that were cold and damp with sweat. Her heart raced, her chest heaved, her gut churned, and it reminded her too strongly of the years right after Voldemort's defeat, when she could not sleep through the night without reliving the terrors of battle, of seeing her friends and family ripped away from her in cold flashes of acid green light.

But that was years ago. Those dreams had stopped, those memories pushed to the back of her mind; not gone, not forgotten, but not present enough to reappear every time she closed her eyes. Besides, she'd always remembered her night terrors: they were as vivid as the memories that caused them.

Was it the children? She held her breath long enough to listen, but the house was silent. Rose and Hugo had fallen asleep as soon as their heads touched their pillows, which was expected after how thoroughly they had enjoyed themselves at the park with Harry, Ginny, and their children.

Not a nightmare. Not her family. What, then?

She tossed the blankets off and swung her legs over the side of the bed, kicking as she went to untangle them from her nightdress. The cotton clung to her everywhere, and she picked at the fabric, pulling it away from her skin. It was a lost cause: the dress was too sodden to be comfortable. She stood and pulled it over her head, and the cool air was refreshing. Her nipples hardened as she broke out in gooseflesh. She stood naked for a moment and looked down at her husband. Ron was asleep, one arm tossed carelessly over his head. He was utterly relaxed, entirely peaceful, and Hermione momentarily envied his ability to sleep through anything, from the cries of their children to her own fitful slumber.

The memory brought a tender smile to her face, and she reached for her wand. The moment her skin touched the handle, she knew, and her smile disappeared as something _other_ awoke in her mind.

_Magic is gone _.

Hermione dropped her wand, and the world disappeared in a flash of blinding, white light. She felt nothing, _was_ nothing, but engulfed, consumed, reprogrammed, and, after an eternity, unleashed. And when the sights and sounds of her bedroom returned, she knew something else.

_This is your task_.

Before she could wonder how, before she could fully conceptualize what it would take to do what she had to do, Hermione had grabbed what she needed from the kitchen. She walked through the house silently, on the balls of her bare feet, as if it were habit. She did not look at the pictures of her wedding, or her children, or her closest friends. They were pleasant, distant memories of the woman she no longer was.

She darkened her bedroom threshold and slowly, silently, approached the bed. With her left hand, she grabbed her pillow, clutching the fistful of down and cotton like the weapon she'd made it.

She moved quickly.

In a motion so smooth it felt practiced, Hermione jammed the pillow over Ron's slightly open mouth and plunged the knife into his gut. He screamed in surprise and pain, and his body surged towards hers.

His immediate, instinctive reaction to fight for his life put her off balance. She was on her tiptoes, about to fall, when her muscles tightened. Magic as hot as fire flooded her veins, and she felt a rush of power, a keen sense of balance, and the drive to finish what she'd started.

She leaned forward, using her strength as leverage to mash the pillow firmly over his face. Then she drove the knife into his chest. The bones of his breastplate broke beneath the force of her thrust, splintering as she stabbed him again.

And again.

And again.

Ron's muffled screams turned into a gurgling as the knife cut through his lungs and heart. Then, he was silent.

His blood was everywhere. Warm and sticky, quickly cooling on her body like sweat. Coating her knife, her hand, and her forearm. Splattered upon her breasts and belly and the pillow she'd used to keep him quiet. It seeped into the blankets and the mattress, a stain that nothing and no one would ever remove.

It was done. Hermione returned to the facsimile of herself, staring at the gaping hole in her husband's chest. The hole where his heart had been.

The pillow hit the floor with a heavy _whump_ and the knife clattered soon after. Her feet were no longer silent as she raced to the loo, barely making the toilet. Her body shook as vomit surged up her esophagus, and her hands made bloody streaks on the clean, white porcelain.

She loved him. His carefree attitude, his bad jokes, his drive to be better for both her and their children…

_The children_.

Her mouth dropped open in a scream, but only breath escaped, a wheezing, pitiful sound, as if a hand had wrapped itself around her throat and squeezed. There was nothing she could do but shove herself to her feet, pass Ron's corpse, and grab the bloodied pillow. Once again moving too silently, she reached her daughter's door. Her Rose. Her lovely Rose, as bright as could be at age five and with every ounce of her father's stubborn pride, with red hair curling wildly across the unicorn-patterned pillowcase her grandparents had given her.

Her Rose, thrashing as Hermione pressed the pillow over her mouth and nose. Her Rose, with flailing beanpole limbs that would never grow into their potential, fighting for breath and life, weakening, weakening, until…

Hugo. Three years old, precious and sweet, redheaded like his father but with Hermione's wide, brown eyes. He barely struggled. He had always been more amenable than his sister. Quiet and gentle. So willing to please, so eager to be loved. And he was, by everyone who knew him.

_Everyone_.

Hermione dropped the pillow and lowered herself onto the bed. Hugo's body rolled toward her, and she placed her hand on his small, cold shoulder, numb.

Was that her task? Everyone?

She curled her fingers into Hugo's pajama shirt and braced herself as the voice in her head whispered the truth.

_The planet is dying. _

_Humans must die first. _

_You are the instrument. _

_You have been Claimed_.

Ron, Rose, Hugo. Ron, Rose, Hugo. Hermione ran her fingers through their hair and across their smooth cheeks; she rearranged their stiffening limbs in the traditional way, legs out straight, arms crossed over the chest, one hand laid atop the other; she held their cold bodies to her warm, naked one and tried to weep for them. But the thing inside of her dulled her grief to a low, throbbing ache and lessened her guilt by guiding her thoughts toward her immediate future.

_Wiltshire_.

It was not the answer she thought would come, and certainly not the answer she wanted, which involved Magical Law Enforcement and a cell in Azkaban. There was only one person she knew in Wiltshire, and he could hardly be of any help to her now.

_Wiltshire_.

She remained with her family until dawn, when the summons to move on could no longer be ignored. She stepped into the shower and turned the water as hot as it could go. It scalded her, turned her skin bright pink, even blistering a few sensitive areas, but she didn't care. It was all that could wash away the blood of her family.

Hermione lingered until the voice tugged at her once more. She toweled off, changed into denims and a t-shirt, and, without thinking, began to pack a small bag. Not shoes or underwear or deodorant, but a collection of Muggle items she'd kept for no other reason than to have them. A book of matches, a torch with spare batteries, a wireless portable, some tools that her father insisted she keep.

She visited each of the rooms one final time. Hugo, Rose, Ron. She reached for the family photo she kept on her bedside table, but her hand snapped back before she could touch it. She frowned and reached for her wand. That she was allowed to grab. She studied it for a moment and, useless though it was, shoved it into the waist of her denims. It was a small comfort; the only token she was allowed to keep from her life before.

She went out to the backyard and made her way to their designated Apparation point: a worn patch of earth behind a large lilac bush. The grass was damp with dew, but would not be for long. Already, the sun was warm and bright. Rose would have begged them to let her fly today, and Ron would have said yes. There was nothing he loved more than hovering alongside her on his own broom, holding his hand at her back to keep her from falling, though her toes still skimmed the grass. They would be out there for hours, Hugo toddling along with them, smiling wildly, laughing and grabbing for his sister's feet, eager for the day when he, too, could fly like daddy and be a Beater like Uncle George was in school. And Hermione would call them all in for lunch and tall glasses of lemonade, and…

_Crack_.

Her backyard disappeared with the smell of lilacs, and she stood beneath the Wiltshire sun in a field with no memories before a manor with too many. A peacock shrieked, and an instant later, Draco Malfoy appeared directly before her. He looked confused, as if he'd been suddenly interrupted, and as soon as she met his eyes, she saw what he'd become. He must've seen the same in her eyes, but old habits die hard. He raised a bloodstained rapier to her chest even as she leveled her wand at him.

Draco eyed her wand with bitter disdain. "Lower it," he said quietly. "We both know it's useless."

"You first." He scowled at her, about to refuse. "I'm unarmed," she continued. "And you know why I'm here."

Draco flinched and readjusted his grip on his sword. "You don't know what I've done." His voice was low and rasping, and his head jerked spastically over his right shoulder. It was Hermione's first clue that he might be coming unhinged.

And maybe she was, too.

She lowered her wand and stepped toward him, pressing her sternum into the point of his rapier. "I do," she answered, and they exchanged a look that shared everything. Draco took a breath and lowered his sword.

"I need to burn them." His voice shook; suddenly, he looked small and lost. "I need to burn them, but I can't start a fire."

Hermione put her hand on his arm. "Take me to them."

Draco knelt a few yards away from the pyre, the bloody rapier held loosely at his side. Hermione stood a few yards behind him, watching as he attempted to grieve. Like her, he could not manage a single sob.

"What's happening to us?" he asked hoarsely. "I want nothing more than to be there with them, but I can't. I can't." He stretched out his arm, but stopped with his elbow still bent. He looked back at her. The fire's heat reddened his face, and ash dusted his pale blond hair grey. "What's happening?"

"Whatever it is, I don't think we can control it."

Draco dropped his arm and looked back into the flames. "Not yet."

Then he disappeared with a sharp crack. Hermione's mouth twisted into a grim smile, and she wasn't sure if she or the voice within her said, "Not ever."

She watched the pyre for a few more minutes, then turned and followed the path back to the Manor. She heard a voice as she made her way through the vaulted halls. Her steps quickened as she recognized it and stumbled to a stop at the threshold of a large sitting room.

"Neville?"

Her voice was small and shaky, more like a squeak, and Neville was upon her in a moment, crossing the room in great strides and sweeping her into his arms in a massive hug.

"Hermione," he said, gasping into her neck. "Merlin, I hoped it would be you, but I wish…"

She tightened her arms around his back, cutting him off. She knew what he wished: that he hadn't killed his new wife, Hannah. That she hadn't killed Ron and her children. That Draco had remained separate from their lives. She wished the same things. But there was no use in it anymore.

"Who else?" he asked, pulling himself away from her. His eyes were dry.

Hermione looked at Draco. He stood with his head down and his hands clasped in front of his stomach. The rapier's tip dug a notch into the shining wood floor. "We can't be the only –"

Draco disappeared again before she could finish her question. She frowned, and Neville shot her a questioning look.

"It happened just a few minutes ago, too. We were out back, and all of a sudden –"

"I got here just a few minutes ago," Neville said. They shared a significant look, and Neville walked toward the large front-facing windows. Hermione could not bring herself to join him.

"Who is it?"

"Can't tell for certain. Malfoy's in the way. A woman, I think. _Cor_, it's Angelina."

Hermione's stomach dropped; George Weasley and his son, Fred, were dead.

Draco disappeared three more times within the hour, bringing back with him Terry Boot, Bill Weasley, and Romilda Vane. He collapsed on the nearest settee once Romilda was settled, finally dropping his rapier.

"That's the last of them," he said on the exhale. "We're it."

Terry looked up from his study of the floor. His eyes narrowed. "How do you know?"

"How did you know to wake up and kill –" A collective hiss went up from the group, and Draco swallowed his words. "I just _know_," he finished instead, his scowl forming deep shadows over his eyes.

"Where's Harry?"

Attention turned from Draco to Romilda. Tense silence lingered for a moment, then Hermione cleared her throat.

"What do you mean, where's Harry?"

Romilda looked at her in mild disbelief. "We were brought here for a reason."

"We know that," snapped Bill. "Clearly."

"Not just that one," Romilda shot back, her fierce expression cowing him into silence. "We, as _individuals_, were brought here for a reason. Hermione," she jutted her head in her direction, "is brilliant, and the best operational planner the MLE has. Malfoy is a Potions expert at Mungo's – no one better with poison or antidotes. Neville is an award-winning Herbologist, and Angelina one of the most athletic, successful Chasers the Harpies have ever had. None of us can match Weasley's instincts or Boot's knowledge of magical infrastructure. I'm an award-winning columnist –"

"For a gossip rag," muttered Angelina.

Romilda shot her a quick glare. "I can _communicate_ with people. A skill _some people_ lack."

"I communicate just fine with my fans," Angelina seethed.

"Yes, but it's much less effective when you use your _fists_."

Neville placed a restraining hand on Angelina's arm before she could demonstrate just how effective her fists could be. "What does Harry have to do with it?" he asked loudly.

"A charismatic leader," Romilda answered. "Someone who can deliver our… _message_ and not make it sound like…"

"Murder?" Draco supplied.

Romilda spread her hands before her. "He's the only piece we're missing, and he's the best there is."

"Could he be coming later?" asked Terry.

"No," Hermione said softly. "Harry isn't coming at all."

"How do you know?"

"Maybe she just _does_," said Terry, giving Draco an insolent look.

Hermione ignored them. "Whatever is in us would have had to get into Harry, too. But it didn't. Or if it did, it couldn't stay."

"How –"

"Because it's happened to him before," Hermione said sharply, silencing Draco's interruption. "Harry's no stranger to voices in his head. He knows how it feels, and he can resist it."

"Ginny?" Bill's voice was a question laced with broken hope. "James? Albus? Lily? Could they still be…"

Draco scoffed. "Don't bet on it, Weasley. I'm sure Potter's strong, but this? This is different. This is much stronger than the Dark… than You-Know-Who ever was."

Bill fell against his chair, his blue eyes gazing into the middle distance.

"What _is_ it?" asked Neville. "I mean, we know what it wants us to do, but why?"

"And how?" chimed Angelina.

There was a synchronized stirring around the room as the voices in their heads susurrated.

"That must be the right question," Romilda said.

"One we're going to answer later." Draco had shaded his eyes with his hand, but his voice was authoritative and sure. "We need more information. And there are matters… There's something I need to…"

"I can't go home," Neville said softly. "I don't have any home left."

"None of us do," said Angelina.

"Speak for yourselves." The group turned to stare at Romilda, who raised her eyebrows. "_You_ all may be wanted for murder," she said, making everyone flinch, "but I didn't have anyone to kill."

"Then why –"

"I don't know," she said in response to Neville's half-spoken question. "And I don't care."

"You're lucky."

She looked at Bill with a pained expression. "Until today, I wouldn't have agreed with you."

"Anyone who doesn't have a place to go back to will stay here," said Draco with the same, tired authority. "The elf will show you to your rooms."

As he rose and stalked toward the door, a house-elf popped into being at the center of the room. Hermione missed its squeaky introduction, however, as she followed Draco into the hallway.

"Draco, wait."

To her surprise, he stopped. She caught up to him and turned him towards her. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped. She'd thought she had something to say to him. Thought she had words that would make what he had done to his family – and what she had done to hers – not okay, because what they had done would never be that, but tolerable, maybe, or easier to bear.

But there weren't. No words could mitigate the pain of their losses or the sharpness of their grief and guilt. They would suffer – _should_ suffer – the consequences of their actions for as long as they lived, which, as the sibilant voice in her head occasionally liked to whisper, was not long. That in itself was comforting; a release from this hell, or the hell that was coming, would be a reprieve. She suspected it hadn't fully sunk in yet, what they had done. Courtesy of what had taken her, she was sure. For if she had had to bear the full brunt of her actions, there was no way she could remain functional. And that did not fit with the new plan for the world.

So she stood next to him in silence that was not waiting to be filled, or filled with anything at all besides the fact that she was there, with him, wordless and suffering in the same way he was. After a few long moments, Draco shifted towards her, bringing his forehead against her own. She closed her eyes as he rested there, inhaling as he exhaled her name. Then he pulled away and continued to the back of the Manor, where he could spend a few final moments with what remained of his family.

Because this evening, their work would begin, and there would be no reprieve until it ended.

**Part Two**

_August 2013, Midday_

"We are not the only ones."

Hermione looked at Romilda in surprise. The raven-haired witch had been gone for a month and a half. Her owls had been sporadic and vague at best; some were only a sentence or two long. Her relative silence had not sat well with the group.

The Claimants which inhabited their minds were connected, which meant that they, as the Claimed, were also connected. But the thread linking them together was tenuous and unpredictable. They could not read each other's minds or communicate through their thoughts, which may not have been such a bad thing: Hermione felt that, as time progressed, fewer and fewer thoughts were her own. The line between her consciousness and that of her Claimant was blurring, and she could do nothing to stop it, as that distortion was most likely its will.

That was more like what was shared, actually: the Claimants' will, and the notions and feelings of their hosts. If Draco needed help in the laboratory, for instance, Hermione would find herself standing by his elbow without even remembering making the decision to go. It was a need not verbally communicated; Hermione would just get a sense that she had to be somewhere else, and then she would be there.

The intrinsic sort of knowing had formed a bond between the group members, except for Romilda, whose Claimant had been silent over her long absence. Now, however, the reason for her silence became clearer, and the silence persisted as she began to explain.

"There are at least three more groups operating in London. Two in Birmingham, two in Liverpool. At least one each in Leeds, Manchester, and Bristol."

"How do you know?"

Romilda glanced at Neville, and Hermione caught a hint of haughtiness in the upwards quirk of her lips. "I'm a Slip," she said, flipping her long, curly hair over her shoulder. "There's one in every group. We're clean. Non-descript names, no questionable personal history, no household of loved ones being murdered one night."

She said it carelessly, but a tight flinch rocketed through the group. Romilda either didn't notice, or didn't care. Hermione guessed it was the latter.

"We blend in, and as such, can learn things that you Takers cannot."

"Takers?" Angelina said with a grimace. "Who is coming up with these names?"

"What do we take?" asked Neville.

The room was silent for a moment, then Draco said quietly, "Lives."

Most eyes stared at the floor, but Hermione's eyes were on Draco. His neck jerked back, his chin stopping just over his right shoulder. He was looking for them; he would be until it ended.

The adjustment was not easy on anyone in the group, but Draco seemed to have the most trouble. Hermione suspected it had to do with remaining in Wiltshire. Being away from her home with Ron, distancing herself from those memories and the pictures and the smells and sights, dulled the stabbing grief she felt. She suspected her Claimant interfered as well; when her thoughts began to drift, she was quickly joined by Bill or Neville, and they would talk of other things, and she would again forget about the family she'd destroyed. Draco had no such luxury. He had to live surrounded by the memories of his first life. Every room, every wall, had a story, some significance attached to it that nothing – not the presence of one or two teammates, or even his Claimant – could completely eradicate.

"_Anyway_," Romilda said, clearing her throat. "People are panicking, like you'd expect."

"Like they should be."

She gave Terry a nod. "Someone started a rumor that the country was safe. There's going to be an exodus out there soon."

"Makes sense," said Neville. "No buildings to collapse. No public transport to bomb."

"We going to stop it?" asked Bill.

Romilda shook her head. "That's not our play, and you know it. Another group has it handled. We have to focus on our job, and on that only."

"So there's no escape," Angelina said quietly.

A grim smile ghosted Romilda's lips. "Not for them."

_October 2013, Evening_

Their mission had separated them. Terry, Neville, and Draco were at the pipes; Romilda, Angelina, and Bill prowled the building, keeping watch; Hermione waited at the corner outside of the building, tuned in to it all. She sat at a bus stop wearing her rattiest Muggle clothes and a sweatshirt with a deep hood. She was inconspicuous, possibly even invisible, courtesy of her Claimant.

It was strange, what they could do. None of the group possessed any magic; of that much, they were all certain. Their wands were less than useless, and wandless casting was completely out of the question. Only the natural magics still worked: potions, herbology, astronomy. Branches of magic that weren't magical at all, really, but were useful to magicians and therefore bundled into their education and labeled as such.

But the Claimants _were_ magical, and occasionally – usually during moments of stress – chose to work that magic through their bodies. Not one month ago, Romilda regaled them all with a story of how she was abysmally failing to charm one of the Resistance leaders when she felt her Claimant take over. It was a blissful moment, pure ecstasy, as the warmth that had for months been missing from her life flooded back, and she lost herself in the flood. As she floated, the correct words sprang from her lips, her eyelids lowered demurely, and the scent of jasmine and vanilla wafted gently around her. The leader was hers after that, and she couldn't take credit for a bit of it, nearly half-drunk off the feeling of her magic momentarily returned.

Hermione was lost in that same soft, golden field, which diminished the hardness of the bench she sat upon and softened the night's chill. Her Claimant had taken over, performing a sort of advanced Occlumency, in which she could see through the eyes of her companions. It rotated through all six of them, flashing in her mind long enough so that she could process the actions and ascertain that everything was going to plan, but not long enough for her to contemplate any more than that. It kept her fully in the moment, fully focused.

Terry hacking at the thick pipe, his Claimant giving him strength beyond his capacity.

Neville watching in silence, grasping two of the four jugs filled with their odorless, tasteless formulation. He was nervous.

Draco standing with his arms crossed, the last two jugs at his feet. He stared at the wall expressionlessly but Hermione knew, with no aid from her Claimant, how severely unhappy he was.

Romilda standing outside the door where Terry, Draco, and Neville were working, bored but alert.

Angelina stalking the outside of the building. Hermione saw herself sitting at the bus stop; she barely recognized herself.

Bill prowling, on the hunt, smelling…

Hermione's body jerked spasmodically.

_Strangers_.

The thrum of Bill's discovery was transmitted instantaneously to the group. With a final heave, Terry broke through the pipe. Draco and Neville were dumping the formulation, Romilda hissing at the door for them to be quick. Angelina dashed toward Bill, who was posturing defensively, snarling.

Hermione came back to herself, cursing Bill's lack of restraint, and then she was back again.

Terry running with Draco, Neville, and Romilda, approaching the exit where Angelina no longer stood on guard, as she had dashed to help Bill, who had his hand wrapped around the throat of a stranger, who never saw the knife approaching fast, impossibly accurate, nearly there…

She was torn away from the scene so violently she cried out, but her cry was lost in the oblivion of travel, and when she reappeared, it was over, and she could do nothing but pant and try not to vomit from the shock. The rest of the group had appeared with her in the Manor, gathered in one room despite having been separated by their tasks.

All eyes whipped to Bill, who looked angry and shaken, but unharmed. Hermione put her hand to her forehead in relief, and several people slumped onto the floor or into chairs.

"What the hell was that?" asked Angelina.

"The Resistance," Romilda answered shakily. "I told you they were mobilizing."

"You didn't tell us they were ready!"

"I didn't know!"

"You're a bloody _Slip_. How did you _not_ know?"

Romilda wheeled around to face Bill. "I can't be everywhere, wolf-man! They have branches just like we do."

"And you just happened to know nothing about the branch that almost got us killed tonight?"

Back to Angelina. "They were nowhere close to that."

"Close enough," rasped Bill.

"And how did they even know about our plan? How did they know where to find us, or what we were doing?"

"Just because they aren't Takers doesn't mean they can't think like we do," said Terry. "It's bioterrorism one-oh-one. How do you mass-distribute poison to an entire area? Use the available infrastructure. Simple, efficient, unstoppable."

"It doesn't matter, anyway," interrupted Neville with a weary sigh. "It's done, isn't it? A quarter of London will be dead or dying in a few days, including Resistance members."

"Yes, but if we encounter them again? If there are going to be run-ins like this every time?"

"There will be," Draco said, his voice carrying with it enough authority to quell the bickering. "And it won't stop until they're dead, which will never happen if we carry on like this all night." He shot Hermione a significant look. She picked up his meaning at once.

"The details are irrelevant," she said firmly. "Tonight was a success. It's good that they came; it means we'll be better prepared for next time. Now to bed. We have work to do tomorrow."

No one argued. Hermione watched in silence as her teammates grouped up and headed to their rooms. None of them spent much time alone. Not since the first week of living in the Manor. They grouped up on their own, naturally, almost, or at least with minimal prodding from their Claimants. Angelina walked away with Bill; Romilda shared herself with Terry and Neville.

And she?

She had Draco.

Or as much of him as was left. She clung to him even as he disintegrated in her hands, losing himself in thoughts that his Claimant could not suppress or erase, enduring her touch only because he recognized her need for him. She was grateful for his tolerance and tried not to let her desires overwhelm his own.

But that restraint would be difficult tonight. She had not expected the Resistance to organize so quickly. That it did was a shock, and a complication. Not one that would derail them, or slow them at all, even. It was just another reminder that what they were doing, the lives they were reclaiming, were the lives of _people_. Of the people each and every member of her group used to be. Hopeful. Determined. _Human_.

It made her think of her children, and of Ron. Of their faces, their eyes, their freckles… How little she recalled from each, the distinctions between them dulling and melding until she remembered them more as one face and a feeling rather than the three separate people they had been.

Draco was at her side, his hand on her shoulder, distracting her enough so that her Claimant could pull her thoughts up from their depths. Up, but not out.

"Romilda believes they're unworthy. The others. The Unclaimed. She thinks we have a higher calling, and that, by killing them, we're saving ourselves. We're forging a better future."

Draco looked at her, his grey eyes uncommonly clear and focused. "Romilda is full of shite."

Hermione smiled sadly and leaned her head against his hand, tears in her eyes. "I used to think so, but what if she's not? What if she's right, and all of this means so much more than we think?"

"You want it to be easy."

"I want… Merlin, I don't know what I want." She wiped her eyes. "I just… It needs to end. One way or another, it needs to end."

"It will."

"And if she's right, and if we're the future? If we have to –"

"She's _wrong_." Draco's grip on her shoulder tightened, and his lips thinned with anger. "She's wrong, because there is no world in which my son, or your children, could ever be considered unworthy."

Her chin quivered, and Draco took her into his arms, holding her tightly because he or his Claimant knew that she needed it. Whichever it was didn't matter; either was correct.

**Part Three**

_December 2013, Evening_

Hermione stood on the Manor's patio, completely still as snow spiraled and vortexed around her. The sharp flakes bit into the bare skin of her arms, neck, and face, and her denims were damp. She was cold all through, shivering in violent spasms that made her teeth click together. But she didn't move, _couldn't_ move, held in place by her Claimant, acting, as always, as the overseer of the evening's mission.

It was different this time. Everyone could feel it. A tension, a restlessness, a sense of… _something_. Foreboding, almost, though not ominous. Finality, perhaps, though that just could've been the arrival of New Year's Eve. A year that had started so ordinarily and had deteriorated into a kind of hell Hermione never could have imagined.

The scene in her mind sharpened, bringing Romilda and Angelina into focus. Romilda kept a few meters ahead of Angelina, her head up and her hands stuffed into her pockets. A woman walking alone at night. Suspicious, perhaps, but not at all threatening.

Hermione knew that was what the night guard thought as she approached the front door, flashing him a charming, vixen-like smile and tossing her wavy black hair, which shone in the moonlight. She knocked on the door, mouthing and miming her need to use a telephone, spinning the reel of a car broken down just up the road and a cell phone that had lost its charge. Another smile, maybe the whisper of a pleasant outcome if the guard acquiesced, and he did what they always did: opened the door.

And, like the others, he did not notice Angelina, who had quickened her pace as Romilda talked and was now shoving past her, the blade in her deft hand screaming toward the flesh of his neck and meeting it with a sudden burst of red. The guard's partner, in shock from seeing his comrade's throat so easily slit, barely had his hand on his weapon before Angelina was at his throat, too. He dropped to the floor, and both women stood still for a moment, barely breathing, waiting for the sound of an alarm or an army of beleaguered Resistance members.

A minute passed with no activity. Romilda's shoulders relaxed, and she approached a still tense Angelina with a satisfied smile. Once she was within arm's length, Angelina spun, twisting so quickly that her figure seemed to blur. There was another splash of red. Romilda's hands flew to her throat, attempting in vain to stem the blood streaming out of her. She fell to her knees, then onto her face.

The reality of what had happened snapped Hermione out of her Claimant's hold with a fierce, painful inhale of bitter air.

Romilda was dead, and Angelina had killed her. True, the women had never liked each other. Their personalities clashed, Romilda's occasional absence of tact grating upon Angelina's sense of gentle honesty. But was that enough reason to murder someone? A teammate?

Her Claimant pulled her back into the scene. Angelina regarded Romilda's body with measured apathy, still clutching the bloody knife.

Hermione resisted. Had it been her Claimant? Had the presence in her head caused her to turn on one of her own? If it had, what did that mean for the others? What did that mean for her?

The visions returned with enough force to snap Hermione's head backwards.

Angelina ran down the hall towards her rendezvous with Bill at the entrance to the stairwell. He was waiting for her, as he should have been, and she approached him with a smile, sheathing her knife. Bill's nostrils flared and his pupils dilated; he smelled Romilda's blood.

Hermione felt a scream choke her chest as Bill pounced, bearing Angelina to the floor, his teeth at her neck. He pulled away, and Hermione saw a chunk of dripping flesh slide down his gullet. Then he was at her neck again, consuming Angelina as she bled and screamed.

Hermione pulled herself away and doubled over to retch. It had to be the Claimants. Bill's sensitivity to blood was strong, but the moon was waning, too far past full to elicit a reaction. And the way he ripped at her, the way he tore at her neck, as if he was starving, as if he was enjoying it… She vomited onto the snow and had barely finished when her Claimant pulled her back.

She followed Bill down the stairwell into the near darkness of the basement. Nothing could hide from his keen eyes, so he saw Terry at the same time Hermione sensed him. He also saw the long, silver blade Terry held and, instead of attacking, Bill paused. He stared at the blade, then at Terry. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and began to unbutton his shirt. He backed himself up against the basement wall, eyes still closed, and Terry stalked toward him carefully, eyeing warily the blood that dripped down his chin and soaked his shirt. With a quick and powerful lunge, he sent the dagger into Bill's chest, right into his heart.

Pain twisted Bill's face, and, through the gore, she saw in it all the Weasleys: Arthur's eyes, Molly's chin, George's grinning mouth, Ron's pointed nose, Ginny's freckles, Charlie's cheekbones, and Percy's high forehead. And then peace descended, and Hermione saw something else: acceptance. Bill, like Draco, had never fully adapted to this new existence. The pull of his family was too strong to let him move on. Terry's act may have been heinous, but to Bill, it was the gift of mercy. He was going home.

Terry looked down at Bill's corpse with something akin to disgust, and Hermione felt a wash of anger course through her. Terry may have been brilliant, but he didn't _understand_. He never had. But as he looked up from Bill's body and into the darkness, his eyes narrowing, Hermione knew he had figured out the pattern. The absence of the others, Bill's quiet acceptance… Yes, Terry would read the signs. He would know. And Neville…

Terry yanked the dagger from Bill's chest and held it before him, moving stealthily down the hallway to the utility room entrance, where Neville was waiting.

Hermione felt him before Terry saw him, and by the time Terry saw anything, it was too late. Neville swung at him with a Beater's club, landing a solid blow to Terry's upraised arm. Terry staggered backwards, curling into himself with pain, but as soon as Neville drew back for a second hit, Terry slashed out, cutting Neville across the chest. It was a thin cut, but long, and his shirt was soon soaked with blood.

They circled each other like wolves waiting to strike. Terry darted forward first. Neville, with uncharacteristic grace, sidestepped the lunge and brought the bat down onto Terry's head. Terry stumbled forward, losing his balance and falling to the floor. He kicked out with both legs as Neville turned. His feet connected with Neville's knees, and Neville's mouth opened in a wail. He dropped to a knee, and Terry kicked out again, laying Neville out on the floor. Terry scrambled over and sat astride him, pounding his face with his fists. Neville's nose broke, arcing blood into the air, spattering Terry's face and hair.

He kept striking, turning Neville's face into a bloody, oozing pulp. But Neville's Claimant was not yet finished with him. His fingers curled around the Beater's bat and, with a final heave, he swung it upwards. It connected with Terry's temple, and he collapsed immediately, smothering Neville's body with his own. And though Terry was by no means large, Neville was in no condition to move him, and Neville's Claimant no longer had any reason to interfere. Hermione could do nothing more than watch as Neville twitched and shoved, weakening by the minute, until finally, he moved no more.

Hermione gasped for breath as her Claimant released its hold. She fell to her hands and knees, trying to breathe, trying to contain the sobs that were stuck in her chest, tearing her apart from the inside. As soon as she had enough breath to scream, her Claimant took her away, physically away, to the last place she would ever be.

With Draco.

He stood over an open pipe with two empty jugs of the poison he, Neville, and Terry had so carefully formulated over the months. She appeared before him still on her hands and knees, and he was at her side at once, helping her up and, when realizing she could not stand for the shaking, settling her onto the floor. He did not linger near her, however. His touch was there and gone, like her skin was painful to him.

She looked at him with wide, teary eyes, and he stared back at her, his own grey eyes forced into blankness.

"The others…" she began. Her voice was cracked and hoarse.

He nodded. "I know."

"How?"

An ugly smirk twisted his mouth. "I can see it in you, Hermione. And I have to do the same thing."

Her eyes widened, and she looked away from him. Despite what hell the year had been, despite the losses of her friends, her family, and herself, she did not want to die. She was scared.

"What if it doesn't work?" Her tone was nearly pleading, and Draco's expression softened into one of pity. "What if the Resistance comes back, or if the poison doesn't work, or if –"

"If any of that were true, do you think _they_ would allow this to happen?" Her silence was answer enough. "The Resistance is gone, or so insignificant they can no longer pose a threat. Most rural areas have been wiped clean, and with this last dose, London will go, too. It's done, Hermione. It's over for us."

Tears streamed down her face. _It's over. It's over_. Finally, it's _over_.

As soon as she understood, her Claimant released her completely, and Hermione broke without it to hold her together. She put her hands to her face and sobbed hard, releasing all of the guilt and grief and pain that her Claimant had forced her to swallow for the last six months. She heard the scrape of metal against concrete as Draco moved closer to her. He put his hand on her shoulder and placed his forehead against her own.

He breathed her name and gently kissed her hair, repeating, "It's over. It's over now." His tone was mild and comforting, and her sobs eventually settled, allowing her to speak.

"I'm scared," she said, clutching the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Don't be."

"Will it hurt?"

Draco lifted her chin so that he could look into her eyes and said with a watery smile, "Only for a little while."

Hermione nodded, fresh tears trekking down her cheeks. "Make it fast," she said, trying to sound strong. "Make it clean."

"I will."

"And Draco?"

"Yes?"

She paused, taking one last moment to look into his grey eyes. "Thank you."

He pressed a gentle kiss to her lips as he pressed his curved knife to the point just below her sternum. With a firm thrust, he pierced her skin and her heart, and she gasped with pain. She clutched his shoulders, her fingers looking for purchase, as if by holding onto him, she could hold onto life itself. He held her and stroked her hair, and everything around her began to dim. The feeling of his hands against her cheek and his lips against hers were feather-light, so ephemeral that they might not have existed at all.

Then his face, his eyes, disappeared, and she did as well, finding peace in oblivion.

Draco pulled his knife from Hermione's chest and laid her down gently. She was beautiful in death, her face unlined with the stress of their new, temporary life, and he thought, if the world had been a different place, if he and Astoria had fallen apart, and if she had finally realized that she was too good for Weasley…

The thought was ludicrous. The world was a different place, but not one in which love or possibility could exist. They had torn apart their own lives, their bodies used as tools for whoever or whatever the Claimants were. And now that his function had been fulfilled, there was only one more use for him, one more sacrifice that he would ever have to make.

He felt no fear as he pressed the knife to the soft spot beneath his sternum, only comfort. And as he thrust upwards with the knife, gasping in a painful breath as it parted muscle, lung, and heart, Draco felt peace.

His life was the final sacrifice. It was one he made gladly.


End file.
